


the worth of an arm

by synstruck



Series: this is our aftermath [4]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 02:29:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1328548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synstruck/pseuds/synstruck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the higher you climb the harder you fall, what goes up must always comes down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the worth of an arm

You frequently stare up into the darkness after everyone has retired to bed, wide awake as you lie uncomfortably on your back. In the calm of the night your mind races restlessly.

Your useless, ruined stump of an arm still burns with pain, even though you'd been given medication and salves and herbal teas to help dull the ache.

It’s been nine days since the mission to recover Eren, and you've been confined to the infirmary since then.

You had collapsed the moment all the survivors had safely entered the walls, the blood loss from your wounded arm finally catching up to you.

You recall leading the formation through the gate and into the streets of Trost, recall feeling the burning pain biting at the stump of your arm as you forced yourself not to urge your mount into anything faster than a walk, recall the sight of Levi's face going paper white at the sight of you as your remaining soldiers file slowly into the courtyard.

The last thing you remember before your vision went completely was Levi rushing towards you, swaying slightly on account of his bad leg, as you pitched bonelessly off your horse.

 

* * *

 

It takes only a week and a half before you are discharged from the hospital wing, stitches removed and the bloody scabbing reduced to raised scars that burn an angry red. The nurse who checks on your arm that morning smiles at you and says that it wouldn't be long before you'll be back in uniform.

You smile back politely, and wonder if you'll be trapped behind a desk for the remainder of your military career.

Have you any worth now that you have lost an arm?

 

* * *

 

It takes you another week to stop reaching out with the useless stump of your right arm.

 

* * *

 

You are frustrated. You are furious and frustrated, staring down at the awkward scrawl of letters on the paper before you, frustrated at the shake of your left hand as you try to pen down the alphabet, frustrated at having to relearn how to write like a mere toddler.

Anger builds behind your eyeballs and bubbles out of you with every breath, and you sweep your arm across your desk in a fit of rage. The stack of paper scatters and the inkwell topples and smashes on the floor, the puddle of black spreading across the floorboards and staining your quill as it lay in the wreckage of shattered glass.

You grit your teeth and press your fingers to your left temple in a circular motion, leaning back in the chair and exhaling slowly through your teeth in an attempt to calm yourself.

You shouldn't have lost your temper.

It's not like you were completely useless. You still had your intellect, your silver tongue. But you were unwilling to be chained to the desk, because what use does the Survey Corps have for a Commander who can't lead them in battle?

What use does the Survey Corps have for a Commander who can't fight with them on the front lines?

What use does the Survey Corps have for a Commander who is naught but a cripple?

 

* * *

 

You throw yourself back into your physical training, throw yourself back into relearning how to balance and how to move and how to fight without the use of your right arm.

It takes you a while to learn to balance and move without the weight of your right arm counterbalancing your left in a casual setting. Trying to use your Gear one-armed feels like a phenomenal task, one that you can never accomplish.

But you aren't going to give up.

You _can't_ give up.

 

* * *

 

Moblit comes to you suddenly one day bearing a new set of 3DMG, one modified for one-armed use, and you don't have the words to describe the swell of hope and happiness that bubbled up in your chest.

You barely have the presence of mind to thank him and to ask him to pass it on for you before you shakily strap the Gear on to try it out.

 

* * *

 

You still have phantom pains.

Late at night, you frequently wake to the sharp sensation of nails digging into the palm of your hand. The pain isn't enough to jolt you back into full consciousness though, and you spend a several moments trying to unclench your fist before you realize that the uncooperative hand is your missing one.

Somehow, the realization is enough to shock you completely awake and the pain flashes sharper up the stump of your right arm.

You lie awake in the darkness of your room and wonder if it is ever going to get any easier.

 

* * *

 

As the weeks pass, you adjust better to living without the use of your right arm, get better at using your new modified Gear. You're still tied to your desk, directing expeditions from behind the walls, but you're confident in your progress.

You're confident that you'll no longer be chained to the office soon.

You're confident that you're getting back up.

You are not a failure as a Commander, and you still have your worth, even when you are less one arm.

 

* * *

 

It takes one mission.

Just one mission for everything to go horribly, horribly wrong.

One mission for everything you were working for, everything you were working toward to crumble around your bloodied ears.

 

* * *

 

The expedition was meant to be a short and easy one. Set out, regroup, return.

The titans completely blindside the Corps as you round the empty buildings, taking out the scouts on your left filtering between the ruins before any of them have the chance to so much as notice them, never mind to fire a warning flare.

You barely have the time to fumble a flare round out of your saddlebag when you hear the screams and fire it into the sky before you feel the flying body of a horse barrel heavily into you and your mount, knocking her over and knocking you off a fair distance away.

Stumbling clumsily to your feet, you run sideways as you try to find your horse, and see her pinned under the body of the stallion that had sent you both flying, her neck bent at a strange angle. Your heart drops and you fire a hook desperately into the closest building before clicking a blade into the handle, knowing that you were dead if you remained earthbound.

A large hand manages to grab you around the midsection as you deploy your next hook and change your trajectory, the wire snapping loudly as the owner of the fist pulls you down to its squashed, deformed face.

The cloying smell of blood and death fills your nostrils as it opens its gigantic mouth wide, and you struggle against its grip, slashing fruitlessly at its wrist as the bad angle and the lack of your right arm disadvantages you. You are barely cognizant of the sound of Levi's voice screaming your name as the titan shoves you into its putrid mouth, and you gag at the stench of its breath.

There is only one thought on your mind as huge teeth close over your upper body, as the pain of being bitten in half shot up your spine. You shut your eyes in equal parts acceptance and resignation.

_I failed._

_I failed the Survey Corps._


End file.
